For the past few months I’d been wearing a sweater constantly. Frankly, that worried me. Outdoor thermometer readings at the time registered 80 degrees. Indoor numbers were much the same. To a native central New Yorker like me, that should have felt positively tropical.

The sky was blue and the sun shone brightly. Children ran past my house wearing shorts. Grown women at the grocery store wore dresses without sleeves. No one seemed to be cold except me.

My mind wandered back to the days of my youth. Seventy-degree days found me hiking over a mile back and forth to the public pool. Dressed in just a long shirt over my bathing suit, I’d be uncomfortably warm. But I marched on, driven by my love of the water.

There were always people to talk to along the way. There was the older man at the end of the block watering his lawn with a hose. And the teen who polished his car so often I could see my reflection in its finish. Neighbors were often digging in their gardens, fixing something or painting. Unlike Southern California residents, folks who live where warm weather is a luxury will use any excuse to spend time outdoors.

And then there were the porch sitters. These were the elderly women I’d see, many the grandmothers of children I knew. I referred to them as “old ladies with sweaters.” They always appeared busy with needlework in their laps. But even I, at my tender age, knew they were lonely and would welcome a word. So I answered their queries about my parents, my sister, even my parakeet, and listened politely to updates on their grandchildren.

While awaiting the opportunity to escape without appearing rude, sweat would drip from my brow. I was eager for a cooling dip in the pool while they wrapped their sweaters more tightly against the breeze. I thought they must be very old, indeed.

Recollection now reality

Memories of those days haunted me as I huddled in fleece inside my house. I’d retired more than a decade ago. My daily walks were getting shorter and often left me winded. My blond hair was streaked with silver strands. True to form, I had tales of grandchildren to tell. But was I really an old lady with a sweater?

On my way home from Redondo Beach today, I took the scenic route along the ocean. When an empty parking spot appeared on a side street, my car practically parked itself there. Moments later, the ramp down to the beach was before me.

Pausing briefly, I considered the amount of exertion hill-climbing required. The incline was a bit daunting, the inevitable trudge back up a consideration for sure. But the sound of the waves and the scent of the sea triumphed over trepidation. Down the slope I went.

Although the soft sand slowed my progress, the ocean called my name. With pants rolled up over my knees and sandals secured to my belt loops, I set off walking briskly down the beach. Children screamed as we all dodged icy waves at the water’s edge. The seagulls’ cries above seemed directed only at me. As if on cue, a dolphin surfaced nearby. I threw back my head and laughed.

When the ramp down to the beach was no longer visible behind me, it was time to begin my journey back. Nearing the lifeguard station where I’d begun and being in no particular hurry, I sat for a while to gaze at the horizon. It wasn’t until I slipped my sandals back on that I realized I’d left my sweater at home.

Christine Danella Lynch is retired and has lived in the South Shores area of San Pedro for more than a decade.

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